So you know that panicked feeling when your car is stuck and your significant other told you it would probably get stuck and then you’re like: oh it’s fine, I can dig it out, it’s not so bad (commences digging) and then you realize it’s -20F out and you are wearing fingerless gloves and maybe that was a bad idea?
Sufficit to say, I did not grow up in New England or in the perpetually frozen hellscape that has been this winter.
So that day after New Years I dug a bit, then called triple A, then went inside (I was stuck on my driveway, which is more like an Olympic quarter mile 90 degree ice luge at the moment) and fully realized how numb my hands were.
This has happened to me before, being she of little circulation, so I wasn’t too phased.
Until my hands began to heat up…and oh, oh the misery. The pain. Ugly scream/crying commences.
After consultation with a Minnesotan friend (post scream/cry, with continued numbness but no loss of color), I learn that I have frost burn.
Oh yes, that is a thing.
What new, fresh hell is this?
If I were a banjo player, I’d be set. Manual labor involving only the tips of my fingers? Pro. Frozone? On it.
Alas, I make most of my living typing and working in a kitchen, and now we get to the fun part: the epic burn/callouses are beginning to peel.
I’ll spare you the details, but it’s not fun, and this whole writing thing is tough and is mostly being done with my first knuckle area.
The things I do to blog, man. I should get an award. I’m pretty much a hero.
The Art of the Everyday, January 15: Offbeat – A revisit of a 2013 theme, where I go outside. It was not fun this time.